Expletive

I'm fucking cranky.

I'm in the kind of mood that needs the word 'fucking' to properly accentuate it.

My cat sprayed my books. Not all of them, just the ones I really liked which could be any of them because I love them ALL. Fucking cat. I love him but I'm mad at him right now. The only reason he's not been skinned for a hat is because I was able to salvage all of them. They are currently drying from a thorough scrubbing with enzymatic cleaner but they're gonna make it. Ever spent the evening cleaning books? Sniffing pages and soaking them with cleaner and hoping later when the book dries that it's not all warped and ruined? It's not as fun as it sounds.

I'm also fucking sarcastic.

My  lady bits are being weird. They're going against the Pill and it's annoying and that's a big part of why I'm cranky because I'm fucking crampy too.

I ate a brownie and I'm going to blame that on the lady bits acting up. It has nothing to do with my emotions being tied to my eating habits. Stress eater? Nah.

See above.

Ugh. I was feeling SO good. I mean, since this change of eating thing has started, I've lost 15 pounds. That's amazing. I even ate a piece of cake and it was glorious and I didn't freak out.

Then some stuff happened and then a little more stuff and then I cried a LOT and then I wrote things that can't go on the internet and I still didn't gain weight and I should be super happy about that. That should be enough to not need to use the f bomb as a particularly colorful adverb.

But it's not.


I've been inside my head a lot lately. I find myself singing along to the radio while I'm driving without even knowing what the song is. I'm on autopilot which might just happen with driving routines, but it's weird.

I've tried retail therapy. It helps a little. I find that just walking into a Target can make me smile. Roaming the aisles is nice until the people become too much, or the price for ceramic dog cookie jars becomes a little too ridiculous and I need to leave.

I've worked in my garden a bit. It helps a little. I'll walk through the yard and pinch off dead things here, pull a weed there. The grass feels good on my feet until I come across a dead thing the cats have left in the yard. Fucking cats.

Dammit, why my books??? I'm having a serious whiny moment of "Why me?? It's not faiiiiiir!"

I'll be fine.

In the grand scheme of things, is it that big a deal? Maybe not the grand scheme but yeah. Kind of is. But I'm drinking a glass of wine so it's becoming less so.

I wish that I could allow myself to feel things more. Seems funny to say that but I mean that I wish I could just accept my feelings, acknowledge them and then just move on. Instead they seem to linger like a really bad fart. Fucking feelings.

I'm hungry now too and I've been avoiding the kitchen because of the whole brownie thing from earlier. I know I should eat, but the guilt is strong. And my stomach is pissy about the chocolate.

I'm done with today. I'm done with cranky and being hungry and pissy. I'm done with hating my cat-he's just doing what he thinks he needs to do and doesn't understand my love of books. However, if I ever find out that cats can understand shit like that, and he's been doing it on purpose? I'll kill him. I'm done with brownie guilt too and leftover stuff and things from earlier and I'm totally done with feelings.

Fucking day.